


The Blind Blogger

by The_ILoveYou_Game



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blind Character, Blind!John, Blindness, Depression, Established Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, M/M, Panic Attacks, well not that much comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2017-12-09 18:51:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_ILoveYou_Game/pseuds/The_ILoveYou_Game
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I love you"</p><p>So Sherlock has become the kind of person who says ‘I love you’ when handing him a cup of tea in the morning.</p><p>John doesn't want Sherlock to change. He’s never wanted that.</p><p>He wants everything back the way it was.</p><p>“I love you, too"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know a blind John story isn't a new thing.
> 
> I tried to pull from personal experience and accounts I read of people coping with blindness. I hope this doesn't offend anyone, especially if you are visually impaired or know someone who is.
> 
> Not beta'd or britpick'd but by all means, volunteer

“This will not be easy, Sherlock.”

Mycroft loves to state the obvious. Infuriating. He ignored him.

The only sound for a few minutes was the tapping of a very expensive heel against the linoleum. _Tap tap tap_. Why couldn’t the fat bastard just _let him be_?

“He will be in pain for a very long time.”

Sherlock grit his teeth, “I will get him the best help and the best medicines”

The politician slowly shook his head, more to himself than to his brother, “Pills and physicians will only do so much for the kind of pain I’m talking about”.

\-----

When it came to it, Sherlock was not able to give the news himself.

For the first time, The Great Sherlock Holmes was at a loss for words.

John had to hear it from a _doctor_.

\-----

The prognosis was not what he wanted. Surgery was unsuccessful. A second surgery is possible but unlikely to do much help.

John barely moved, head bowed. He dismissed the professional with a polite “Yes, thank you doctor”. Too polite. Sherlock wanted to scream at the man in the white coat.

\-----

Sherlock noticed the slight tremor of his friend’s hand. He wondered if the limp would return as well.

\-----

John had kept his eyes closed since the nurse had taken off the bandages. He thought that maybe if he didn’t open his eyes, it wouldn’t be real. Maybe they’d all been lying to him. Maybe this was one of Sherlock’s experiments.

He doesn’t know how long he sat there with his eyes clenched shut, taking measured breaths before warm arms came around his shoulders.

“John” the limbs lightly wrapped themselves around his chest “I know what you’re doing. You can’t…” a sharp intake of breath, “…this needs to be confronted now rather than later.” The detective was having trouble choosing the right words.

Taking a deep breath, like he was about to plunge into the ocean, John steadied himself.

He opened his eyes.

He saw nothing.

\-----

‘Nothing’ is incorrect. He saw grey and white and strange smudgy colors. He didn’t see the pained expression on Sherlock’s face.

\-----

Sherlock knew that John’s condition was entirely his fault. He tried to apologize.

 John wouldn’t hear it.

\-----

John almost never went to crime scenes, anymore. He could no long play body guard, or help look for clues, or even inspect a body. Every time Sherlock got a new case, John wondered why Sherlock kept him around.

He must be a burden to the detective. John could barely get dressed by himself, although his therapist said that he’ll be more independent in the future once he and Sherlock adjust.

Sometimes John worried that Sherlock would get wrapped up in a really interesting mystery and forget about him and he would be left stranded in this strange land (his own flat was now dangerous to him), hardly able to care for himself. Sometimes John wished that he would.

But Sherlock was so good to him that it made John angry.

He didn’t deserve it.

\-----

 He was so damaged. He wondered if Sherlock would get bored of playing nurse.

\-----

The first time they had sex since the accident, it was messy and awkward. John kept missing Sherlock’s mouth and he head butted him a couple times. It was nothing like the fast-paced, adrenaline-spurred, passion they had before. It was gentle and careful and beautiful in its own way.

Sherlock kept telling John how gorgeous he was and John just wanted him to stop.

\-----

“I love you”

Sherlock never says ‘I love you’ but John always knew it by the way Sherlock would look at him over a corpse, or the twitch of his lips when he did something clever. These were things John couldn’t see now. So Sherlock has become the kind of person who says ‘I love you’ when handing him a cup of tea in the morning.

John doesn’t want Sherlock to change. He’s never wanted that.

He wants everything back the way it was.

“I love you, too”

\-----

It was only supposed to be a walk. Sherlock just wanted to see the area where the suspect was living; he was looking for some kind of soil to support his theory. John didn’t care that they were only out to look for some dirt (literally), he so rarely got to do something different from his routine he welcomed the excursion.

He was lightly grasping Sherlock’s hand, their contact almost hidden by his long coat. John hadn’t brought the white cane with him because he liked it when Sherlock subtly led him around the city. His Seeing Eye Detective. It was nice to be somewhere new.

Then Sherlock spotted the suspect: the suspect that wasn’t supposed to be here; the one that was supposed to be hiding in one of his friends’ basements. The detective took off running in pursuit of the man. He sprinted forward so suddenly and so quickly he almost sent John falling face first.

“Sherlock?”

There was a steady stream of people on the sidewalk; it was midday in the city. They were bumping into the doctor, pushing him to and fro. A few muttered “Sorry, mate” but no one noticed the blind man stumbling around. He was afraid to move, not knowing which direction would take him toward the busy road and which toward his detective.

John wasn’t that familiar with this area. He didn’t know where to go, “Sherlock!” Breathing hurt and his ribcage felt too small.

A jogger knocked him to the cement and he tried to half shuffle, half crawl to the wall of the buildings lining the street. Someone stepped on his wrist, hard, but they didn’t slow down. Pedestrians, for the most part, went around him, but no one helped him up. When he reached a relatively safe brick wall, he slowly stood and used the sturdy wall to hold himself up. He wanted to scream. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to cry. He wanted Sherlock.

\-----

Sherlock had the man handcuffed ( _Twenty-nine years old, schoolyard bully, bad temper, killed the victim by accident, only wanted to scare him…boring.)_ and had texted Lestrade by the time he’d realized his mistake.

He found a Good Samaritan (who has been embezzling money from his naïve boss and was easy to blackmail into babysitting a criminal) to watch and wait for the police while he sprinted back.

\-----

John was not where he’d left him.

Sherlock’s phone ringing broke through his panic

_Mycroft._

\-----

When Sherlock arrived at Baker Street, Mycroft was sitting imperiously in his armchair, fingers steepled under his chin as he stared intently at the door of Sherlock’s bedroom.

Sherlock expected his meddling older brother to be smirking at him, maybe even demand a favor in return. The older Holmes did not look smug though, he looked…angry, disappointed even. Sherlock stood still in the middle of the den while Mycroft rose and strode over to him. He towered over the detective and wasted no time with quips or insults, “The next time I pick up the good doctor it will not be to drop him off at your residence. Good evening, brother.”

Mycroft rose and walked back out into the London realm where a mysterious black car awaited him, no doubt.

Mycroft’s threats were pushed to the back of his mind as he ran to the bedroom. He slowed as he crossed the threshold. John was curled in the bed, awake but drowsy. Upon closer inspection, Sherlock could see dried tears on his cheeks and his dusty eyelashes were still damp. He obviously had some sort of panic attack. _How long did John wait on the street for Sherlock to come get him?_ It hurt to think about. John sniffled quietly and scrubbed at some dried snot and tears as he heard the approaching footsteps.

“Mycroft?” John’s voice cracked slightly but it was obvious he was trying to hide the fact that he’d been crying.

Hearing John say his brother’s name hopefully instead of his own hurt, but Sherlock knew he deserved much worse.

“No, John” of course John recognized that deep voice.  Sherlock approached the bed and sat on the edge, putting his hand out and brushed John’s cheeks with the back of his fingers. The blond crawled across the bed a bit to put his head on Sherlock’s hip.

Sherlock knew this wasn’t right. John should be furious. He should be yelling and hitting him for his stupidity. He expected at least cursing and name calling. He wasn’t sure what to do with this.

“I’m so sorry, John.”

“I know you are.” John grabbed onto Sherlock’s shirt and gripped the material in his clenched fists, like the detective might slip away from him again. “You can’t…” a few shuddering breaths, ”You can’t do that to me, Sherlock!” It was anger, but it was half-hearted. Sherlock ran his fingers through the soft blond hair. It was longer than John would normally allow it to grow, but John wasn’t able to see how shaggy it had become.

“I know…God, I know. I’m so sorry”

“I love you, Sherlock” John’s voice was pleading. _What was he begging for?_ Sherlock wondered.

Sherlock gathered the tired blogger in his arms and held tightly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You look sad. When you think he can't see you.

Sherlock Holmes did not want to open his eyes.

It was warm under the duvet from John and his body heat. John’s still asleep but the detective has been awake all night. Now he lies here, pretending to sleep; he won’t let John wake up alone.

Sherlock has nightmares.

He wasn’t there when John was attacked and beaten so badly that when the detective finally got to him he was slightly delusional from pain and, what would turn out to be, a moderate concussion. Lestrade was called, an ambulance arrived, and Sherlock followed closely behind in Lestrade’s cruiser while he explained the details of their criminal’s operation that would lead to his arrest.

Sherlock worried about John, of course, but none of his injuries appeared life-threatening and he knew he would be of no help in the back of that ambulance.

At the hospital, he had read John’s chart. After he’d received news of John’s more permanent and pressing diagnoses, he obsessed over the chicken scratched form while his partner slept in one hour intervals. He was a detective; he didn’t need to be there to know what had happened to John in that piss covered and rubbish filled alley.  Sherlock could imagine the fight in his head, he could almost see every punch and grapple and it played over and over as if he had been there. He could hear the crack of plank of wood as it made contact with John’s skull. He could hear the wet slapping of the criminal’s fist connecting with the doctor’s face over and over again.

It plays on repeat in his mind and he lashes out in his dreams: trying to stop it, trying to stop everything. He’s trying to save John, not just from the hands of a drug smuggler, but from the life that’s waiting for him when he wakes up, the life neither of them knows how to cope with.

One night he hit John during a fit of thrashing and whimpering, waking to a frantic calling of his name and before Sherlock could say anything he heard a panicked “I’m sorry” from the other side of the bed.

_John_ was apologizing to _Sherlock._

“I should know better than anyone else how stupid it is to try and restrain a person having a night terror,” Stupid, _stupid_ John. He promised Sherlock he wasn’t in pain or seriously hurt “I took a bullet to the shoulder, remember? It’s going to take more than a swat from a lanky detective to hurt me.”

Everything Sherlock wanted to say was stuck in his throat: a simmering, burning mass of regret and anger. The next morning he saw an ugly violet and yellow bruise along the side of John’s jaw, leading all the way up to his cheekbone. John couldn’t see the hideous mark himself, of course, but it had to be painful. Not that the idiotic man would complain. The worst part was that John thought it was his fault. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

Sherlock promptly ran to the toilet and vomited.

To avoid any further harm to John Watson, he slept in short intervals or kipped on the sofa. Last night, he’d snuck into the kitchen to tinker with an experiment involving bees and anthrax spores after John had fallen into a deep slumber but had crawled back into the bed as morning neared.

When he hears the tell-tale signs of John waking up, the snuffling and shifting and soft breath intake of a soldier unable to identify his surroundings, Sherlock’s eyes flutter open. He’ll never get tired of watching how quickly John’s face changes: from peaceful to tense to relieved to content in seconds. The blond man turns around to face his partner. He cups the man’s sharp cheekbones and gives him a peck that lands on the corner of his lips; pulling back he offers a small smile.

_Good Morning._

Sherlock kisses him in return, just a light brush of lips on his forehead, but cannot return the smile. That’s fine. It’s all fine: because John can’t see the slight frown tugging at his lips.

 The detective can’t smile because John Watson’s beautiful, dark, grey-blue eyes are empty.

\-----

He was teaching John his methods: the science of deduction, how to see what others miss, and how to use all the facts to formulate theories (proper ones, not the half-cocked _fantasies_ the Yarders are so fond of).

But how can he do that now? Now that his army doctor can neither see nor observe? John can’t even offer his medical opinions on corpses anymore. He can’t help in the chases and shoot-outs. Even shifting through crime scene photographs and case files are now solo activities.

John can no longer be a part of the work.

That is not acceptable.

\-----

The guilt would be better if there was someone to chase and find and kill but the men responsible are in custody and aren’t coming out anytime soon.

Of course Sherlock could always arrange their deaths, accidental or otherwise, without having to get his hands dirty but that’s not what he wants. He wants an outlet for his anger, his frustration. He would rip them apart until the fury subsided and he felt like he could breathe again.

But there was no catharsis for him, nowhere to vent.

Except for John and it wasn’t fair.

\-----

Fighting with John wasn’t fun anymore. He rarely argued back and almost never got angry at him. It was not okay.

\-----

Sherlock bounds into Baker Street, a slight high from the case he’s been on for twenty hours. A simple thing really: wife faked her death and stole a couple million from her husband to run off to the States with her mistress. There was a good bit of undercover work, a break in, and an opportunity to show off in front of Lestrade and the others. It was good.

Sherlock had asked Mrs. Hudson to help John with dinner and let him know Sherlock was “out and about with the good DI” but John was wary to accept too much help from their landlady. He had his pride and was reluctant to even ask Sherlock for assistance, so it wasn’t too big of a surprise to find the short blond standing in the kitchen, leaning heavily on one foot, with his hand under the faucet, while the lino was littered with ceramic shards and tea. The detective went straight to the man and grabbed his wrist, wanting to survey the damage for himself.

“You could have just called Mrs. Hudson for help.” Sherlock tried to keep his voice soft but the words sounded tense in his own ears. It’s bad enough he’d done this John, he didn’t need the man hurting himself on top of it. When John stayed silent, head bowed slightly, he let out a frustrated growl and pulled him toward a chair, forcing the doctor to sit while he went to grab a first aid kit.

It wasn’t until he started applying burn cream to the angry red skin that John spoke up, “I don’t need help with everything you know. I’m not useless.”

There it was: John switching from melancholy to anger. Despite Sherlock’s mercurial nature, he loathes these mood shifts in the smaller man. He doesn’t want to put up with it today, he wanted today to be a good day. He’d just solved a crime, a 6 or a 7 at least due to the cleverness of the not-so-dead wife. Can’t he just enjoy the post case contentment?

He started wrapping gauze around the burn as John tugged his hand away weakly, “Sherlock. It’s barely anything. Leave it alone,” It wasn’t a real attempt to get away from the careful hands but it was enough to make John feel like he’d tried, like he was still fighting.

Sherlock ignored the protests while his attention shifted to John’s foot. There was a slight gash on the side of the right one where he’d stepped on a sharp chunk of broken mug, and that’s when Sherlock noticed the mismatched socks. Coming in to see the mess on the floor he’d not paid attention to the man’s clothing.

His socks weren’t the same color. He could see where John had tried to dress himself, missing the buttonholes on his shirt. Sherlock clicked his tongue in annoyance and started unbuttoning the collar, and as he started pushing the plastic disks between the worn holes it was revealed that John had put his vest on inside out. John had been too embarrassed to ask Mrs. Hudson for help dressing and he didn’t know when Sherlock would return so he’d opted not to stay in his pajamas all day. Of course, Sherlock had forgotten to lay out John’s clothing the night before in his rush to start the investigation.

 Maybe if he stopped buying the tagless vests, John would be able to feel if his vests were right side out or not. In fact, this was a good opportunity to completely revise the doctor’s wardrobe. Maybe he could create some kind of system so John could match his socks (all those times John mocked his own sock index!). He filed the thought away for later.  For now, he focused on correcting the man’s ensemble.  John batted is hands away after the first button.

“I can do it myself.”

“Obviously not.”

“Stop. I am not a child.”

“I would stop treating you like a child if you would stop being so imbecilic and stubborn and just ask for some bloody help!” Sherlock hadn’t meant to raise his voice near the end and the outburst took him by surprise. John was glaring at the space above Sherlock’s left shoulder and the detective’s stomach twisted a little. “John.” He gently coaxed John’s face so that he was facing him, “I don’t want to come home to you bleeding.”

_It makes me scared_. Was what he didn’t say; it’s what he’ll never say because Sherlock Holmes doesn’t _do_ scared. He can’t afford to be scared because being scared meant seeing John as this fragile thing, something the ex-army doctor would protest greatly.

John was silent as Sherlock finished wrapping his hand. The detective knelt as he carefully bandaged the injured foot then stood, kissed his doctor on the top of soft blond hair, and turned to clean up the broken shards of mug off the floor, pointedly ignoring the dejected look on his blogger’s face.

\-----

John’s anxiety was never such an issue before. The cases and excitement worked the adrenaline out of his system. He suffered from the occasional nightmare, and some cases hit him harder than others but he had it under control. 

Now he always seemed on edge. He jumped from glass breaking, nearly had an attack when Sherlock dropped a textbook, and even someone knocking too hard on the door made him tense.

Sherlock would watch him when he thought he was alone, sitting in his armchair with his mobile gripped tightly in one hand, the other one drumming impatiently. He looked like he was listening out for something.

Sherlock didn’t understand what he was waiting for.

\-----

John loved Sherlock’s violin playing and the detective thanked whatever God there might be that one thing hadn’t changed.

\-----

Sherlock had spent the afternoon at the morgue. Sometimes he needed to get away from John, from their flat. from all that responsibility…it was suffocating him. The hours he spent crouched over the microscope cleared his mind of all the useless thoughts that polluted his brain. _Is John’s toothbrush in the same place? He made sure to lock the doors and windows, right? Is everything in its place, exactly where John can find it? Is John’s phone fully charged and turned up all the way? Did he lay out clothes for him in case time got away? Did he push all the chairs in and put away his experiments before he left? He can’t have John drinking mould instead of tea by mistake._

 Today, walking down the street was more relaxing than a cab ride, especially since Sherlock could appreciate how nice it is to walk without having to guide someone with almost every step. He needed the breathing room the brisk city would give him.

All these useless thoughts bogging down his hard drive and distracting him- _No._

_Wrong._

Not useless; related to John: anything related to John is of upmost significance.

When he turns down Baker Street and sees the ominous black sedan parked along the curb, he hastens to the door of 221 and flies up the steps to his home. Mycroft’s presence unsettles him, particularly because Sherlock knows the power his brother has. The politician could easily take John away from him and there was not much the detective could do without hurting his doctor. His threat during their last exchange could have been a bluff but it wasn’t worth the risk. He doesn’t ever want to risk John again.

He slowed as he walked into the den and found John at his laptop with Mycroft draped over his shoulder talking to him about something on the screen. He watched as John smirked at something the older man had said, something Sherlock had missed.

A digital female voice came from the computer speakers, “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” and John was grinning wide and chuckling softly while looking in the general direction of Mycroft. Sherlock cleared his throat to announce his presence, John jumped slightly and the smile shrunk considerably. Mycroft’s own smirk disappeared as he acknowledged his brother.

“Hello, Mycroft. To what do we owe the pleasure?” He didn’t bother to hide his annoyance; John wouldn’t chastise him about it anyway.

“I was just dropping in. I had a gift for the good doctor, I thought I’d show him how to break it in.” Ever cool and collected, Mycroft stepped away from John’s chair and towards his brolly, propped against John’s armchair. He twirled it between the palms of his hands, “It’s been awhile since he’s updated his blog. His fans await another harrowing tale of justice and deduction.”

He sounded sincere but the look in his eyes told Sherlock his was a power play, a challenge of sorts.

“It’s amazing Sherlock, this program helps me write and use the internet by speaking to it and it can read things back to me. It’s quite impressive.”

“A big improvement to your two-finger, key pecking method you had before, I’m sure” John’s rolling his eyes but he’s obviously amused by Sherlock’s remark. The teasing is good, it makes it feel more like things were before.

Mycroft offered a tight smile at the exchange before checking his watch imperiously, “Well it appears I’m needed elsewhere. Please put that software to good use, I hope to see a new post soon. Always a pleasure John. Sherlock.” John smiles at the politician and offers more thanks and accepting an invitation out to lunch.

Sherlock corners Mycroft the moment he steps out into the hall.

“What exactly are you playing at, Mycroft” He spits the name out like it has a bad taste. It’s a ploy, for something. The gifts, the visits, and the phone calls (yes Sherlock checks John’s phone but he can’t help it)…Mycroft does nothing without an ulterior motive. Seeing the smaller man smiling at his older brother in a way he rarely smiles at Sherlock anymore makes an unpleasant sensation grab at him.

Of course Mycroft sees right through him “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, brother.”

“I am not– “, but he can’t finish. Is that what this is? Like anger, but more helpless and melancholy, with a touch of fear?

Silence sits between the two while Mycroft watches his brother shift through his limited emotional database.

“Eventually, dear brother, you will figure it out. John is neither a riddle nor a wounded animal. Stop treating him like an invalid.” He stepped around the younger man and headed for the stairs. Before descending he stopped and turned back to face the detective. “I told you this would not be easy, but it doesn’t need to be difficult.” Letting out a longsuffering sigh, he strolls down the stairs and into his waiting car.

Sherlock has had enough of his brother’s overbearing, cryptic messages.

He comes back to their sitting room, brushes a light kiss on John’s temple (something that makes John grumble contently), then settles on the sofa in his favorite thinking pose. He watches John as the man fiddles with the program, his usual bland expression back in place. Sherlock wonders how he can get that smile back on the blonds face: the smile only Mycroft and Lestrade and Molly can get to appear, but not him.

 He will figure out how to fix him and John. He will figure out how to get the old John back. John will be happy again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is obviously longer than the last chapter but I tried to stay mostly in Sherlock's POV for it. I just wanted to get this posted honestly.
> 
> I already have some idea for another chapter but overall I'm not sure how long this will be. Probably around five chapters at the most.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three little words.
> 
> You. Repel. Me.

Mycroft’s threat has been lingering in the back of Sherlock’s head since he came home to find his brother in the flat with his doctor.

This was the fat bastard’s strategy. He was winning him over with little gifts and trinkets. He offered to get the man a service dog for God’s sake. It’s obvious his nosy sibling doesn’t think him possible of caring for another human being; no he thinks that he’s still the same volatile junkie he dropped off into rehab, or the same selfish child that made his own Jolly Roger out of Mycroft’s school uniforms.

Mycroft was playing games, being cryptic, leaving riddles. Sherlock detests riddles.

Mycroft can doubt him as much as he likes but Sherlock will be there for John, for everything. He won’t let him down. He loves him and he’ll take care of him for as long as John will have him.

\-----

John was pacing between the television and the coffee table. Restless. Bored. He’s not even really thinking, just trying to expel some excess energy. The television set was buzzing and mumbling in the background while Sherlock sat in his chair, laptop propped on his knees watching his doctor shuffle back and forth.

“Sit down, already. Before you run into something.”

John stopped in his tracks and shot a glare in the general direction of the infuriatingly patronizing voice. “I’m bored, Sherlock. You of all people should know what it’s like.”

“Work on your blog.”

“How am I supposed to write on the blog? I never go on cases anymore.” He’s seething a bit, he knows, but he’s stir-crazy and frustrated, “Nothing happens to me anymore.”

“I tell you exactly what occurs on each of my cases. Transcribe them. Post them. I’m sure the drooling masses have missed it.”

“Sherlock, if I wanted to post your account of a case word for bloody word then there isn’t much point. They can all go and read yours.” Sherlock is silent in response and John turns on his heel, heading towards the kitchen.

Sherlock stands up, close on his heels, “Where are you going?” he sounds alarmed.

“To the toilet, Sherlock. Stop following me,” he throws over his shoulder at the looming man.

Sherlock is putting a hand on his lower back, unnecessarily guiding him around the table and the boxes on the floor. John just twists to dislodge him before slamming the door.

He’s gripping the sink, breathing through the irritation. He can’t see himself in the useless piece of glass in front of him, cold under his fingers.

He fishes for his phone in the pocket of his denims, feeling ridiculous, hiding in the bathroom to make a phone call. The little voice in the mobile reading out his contacts to him until he reaches Greg, hoping the Detective Inspector is free for drinks tonight.

\-----

The night out at the pub was refreshing. They drank and laughed and Greg told  John about how all the players in the football game playing on the small screen above the booth had somehow gotten worse since their last night out.

Eventually they left, Greg giving John a lift back to his flat.

“The Holmes clan would have a fit if I left you alone and slightly pissed to find a cab. Tonight was fun. Christ, it’s been far too long.” Lestrade sounded tired and John chucked a little.

“Well, ring me the next time you want to watch my team lose and we’ll do it again.” John felt along the door for the handle before stumbling a bit onto the sidewalk.

“Oi! Don’t bust your arse on the stairs. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

John laughed himself up the stairs and into Sherlock’s and his bedroom, hoping he’s got awhile longer before his detective comes back to him. Awhile longer to just be John, to just be normal.

\-----

“No more games, Mycroft. Tell me why.”

“You should know why, if you feel for John like you say you do. Give John what he needs instead of what you think he should need.”

Sherlock has never liked anything simple, the more complex the better. He built his life, is business, hell, his relationship off of the need for it. He doesn't want John to be a puzzle he solves and throws aside. He needs to be as clear and simple as possible in regards to John, if he could only figure out how

\-----

They say when you lose one of your senses, your other senses improve. John can’t confirm this because everything is constantly a grey wash of white noise and numbness. A sea of disorientation and limbo.  It feels like being underwater for too long, surreal and torturous, vision clouded with bubbles until everything is a swirling mess and the weight of his clothes and thoughts pull him down. He’s submerged but he’s not drowning, not quite.

He can still breathe; he knows it because when he takes a stuttering gasp air fills his tired lungs. Moist pressure at his neck, warm and soft, breaks through his haze; points of sensation, like a needle breaking through fabric, strings pulled taut, again and again stitching him back together. It’s slapdash at best.

“ _John.”_ The warmth on his back is soothing and he leans back into it. “John. What are you thinking?” One thin arm is wrapped around his waist and another across his chest, long fingers stroking his collarbone. The detective is trailing kisses up his spine.

“Deduce it.” John punctuates it with a very deliberate press of his arse against Sherlock’s cloth-covered groin. He’s feeling… _something_ tonight, and that’s as close to playful as he gets.

“I’m…” Sherlock kisses along his shoulder “…a genius...” He nips at the skin along the doctor’s throat, “…not…” deft fingers rub at a dusky nipple and he plants a kiss behind John’s ear, “a mind reader.”

John can feel the tender spots dotting his neck and shoulders, blooding pooling beneath the skin; he’ll be covered in bluish-purple splotches tomorrow. He’s panting slightly from arousal as he reaches his arm back and tangles his fingers in soft curls. It’s an awkward angle but he’s able to reach Sherlock and he lets him know what exactly he’s thinking with a clumsy clash of lips and teeth.

Growling low in his throat, Sherlock pushes the blond onto his back. He’s able to deepen the kiss, rough and strong. John is scrambling at the smooth chest in front of him; trying to pull him closer in a desperate attempt at more contact all while he sucks at the detective’s bottom lip.

He breaks the kiss with a lewd smack, “Too many clothes.” His bottoms are too constricting and he pushes at them, wiggling and kicking his pajamas and pants off. Next he gropes at Sherlock’s thin waist and pulls at the waistband of his black boxer briefs for emphasis. There’s a shocking moment of cold on John’s damp skin as Sherlock lifts himself up to shuck off his pants but it doesn’t last for long before he’s pressing back down on John, their movements becoming increasingly more frantic.

At the first press of their erections, John’s gasping. He can’t quite get air in his lungs between the grinds and caresses. When Sherlock runs his thumb around the tip, smearing pre-cum down the head of his flushed cock, it’s like he’s sinking. John’s wrapped a hand around the nape of Sherlock’s neck as he leaves bites and red welts down the blond’s chest. There’s a worry in the back of John’s mind that he’s breaking skin where his nails are digging into the detective’s side but the jolts of pleasure shooting from the base of his cock and up his spine are keeping his mind pleasantly blank.

Sherlock has his hand wrapped tightly around both of their erections, thrusting hard against the velvet, solid, heat of John. It’s not the most comfortable procedure, without proper lubricant, but between their combined pre-cum and a filthy lick along the palm of his hand he can feel his orgasm building, and he knows John’s getting ever closer as he writhes and gives aborted uncoordinated thrusts against Sherlock.

He makes sure there are enough marks and bites covering his doctor so that Mycroft or Molly or Lestrade or anyone else who sees John will know that he can take of his blogger. He wants everyone to know that even though they all get to see him smiling and carefree, even if it’s just for a moment, only he gets to him like this. Debauched, out of control, and lost in pleasure.

 There’s nothing but the sparks of electricity where Sherlock touches him and it’s all John can feel. The nonsense muttering and litany of So Good’s and God’s falling from those cupid bow lips is all he can hear. Tobacco, coffee, and expensive soap are all he can smell. Nothing matters in those moments while he’s tilting and tipping over and spilling all over those clever hands and sweaty stomachs. He’s drowning now he knows it because he can’t pull air into his body.

Sherlock follows closed behind, sent over by the sight of John arching, slack jawed and tight against his body. He falls, careful not to land on the smaller man and pulls John towards him panting and trying to orient himself. John’s got his faced tucked below Sherlock’s chin, heavy breaths washing over the hollow of his throat with every exhale.

Sated, the men lay there for a time, chest to chest, breaths evening out as their mixed ejaculate grows cold and tacky between them. John reaches over Sherlock’s shoulder, half climbing over him to grab a towel off the bedside table. He begins wiping of Sherlock’s chest and stomach before cleaning off his own abdomen, giving a perfunctory, but gentle, wipe around each of their sensitive groins. They really need a shower to clean off the stink of sex but he’s too spent to do that much moving.

Sherlock watches John’s small, careful hands as he runs the terry cloth over their bodies. His hands are cautious and hesitant, trying to be as efficient as possible to make sure he gets every spot. He’s missed an area around his own hip but the concentration the man has put towards this one task tells the detective that this fulfills more than just his need to nurture.

Throwing the towel behind him, John snuggles up to Sherlock’s side, his head on the lean chest. One hand gropes for his and when he finds it he laces his fingers with the long violinists’, memorizing each crevasse and callous. Neither one of them can quite fall asleep. John squeezes his hand before finally speaking up.

“I miss the color of your eyes.” His throat feels constricted.

Sherlock let out a small sigh. Not now. Please.  “John-“

“No. Let me finish.” His voice wasn’t cracking anymore, suddenly confident, he says with an even tone, “I miss the color of your eyes…but I don’t think I ever really appreciated the texture of your skin. Or the way your chest rumbles and vibrates when you talk. Like a bloody cat purring when you’re showing off. I never paid much attention to the smell of just _you_ and London and adrenalin.” He pauses for a deep breath. In and out. “So I miss the color of your eyes. I think that, for the rest of my life, I will always miss the color of your eyes…but there are some things I’ve gained since…since…” In and out. Breathe. He’s losing his composure and his throat feels raw. He needs to say it because Sherlock needs to hear it but he can’t quite, so he settles for what he _can_ articulate, “but I’ll always miss the color of your eyes.” John’s trying so hard to let Sherlock in and let all the pain out but it’s hard. His heart feels stiff and underused like relaxing his hand after a death grip on his old life.

Sherlock’s mind is blank. There are so many emotions and meanings behind that confession that he’s afraid of running straight into a land mine and ruining the tentative repair in their relationship.

“I’m-“

“No please. Not tonight. Let’s just…not tonight.” John lazily pulls the duvet over them, settling in for sleep and Sherlock mumbles a goodnight into the soft blond hair.

Neither one of them will say it tonight. They say it more then they say “I love you”. It’s habit by now. The words repeated so many times they’ve lost their meaning. 

But it’s all they can say at the end of each day.

_I’m so sorry._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo it's been like 6 months since I've updated you have permission to throw things at me next time I take that long to update. I feel bad for the hiatus so have a bit of smut (consequently the rating got bumped up). I might go back and edit later but I really just wanted to get this out to you guys.
> 
> Hopefully the next chapter will be up in a couple weeks since it's already half written.
> 
> Throw things at me via tumblr: vaticancamiohs.tumblr.com 
> 
> :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody could be that clever.
> 
> You could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I wrote this chapter while listening to Wrecking Ball and Sun on Sunday on loop so that's why it's such a hot mess.
> 
> Sorry.

 

John hadn’t spent this much time being poked and prodded and interrogated by doctors since he got shot. Thankfully Doctor Hart is tolerable, he didn’t bother with condescending explanations and he was straight to the point.

Even more remarkable than the doctor’s professionalism is his ability to deal with Sherlock throughout the boring examinations. John can hear the detective sighing and tapping and squirming in the cheap chair in the corner and it’s driving him up the wall. This is exactly why he told Sherlock he should go to his appointment alone and now he has to babysit a bored detective.

John can’t help but snap at the man part way through the disappointing vision acuity exam when all the damn noises become too much, “Sherlock. Get out.” At the agitated tone from the blond man, Doctor Hart stops fiddling with the equipment immediately.

The detective straightens in his chair immediately, poised like he’s ready for a fight, “What? Why?”

Just the sound of Sherlock’s voice grates on John nerves and he can’t tell if it’s the anxiety of the possible outcomes from this appointment or the stress of a smothering partner.

 _You’re making this more difficult than it already is. I always feel like screaming when you walk into a room. I love you. You’re suffocating me._ Those aren’t the kinds of words you can take back because you were caught in a moment of misplaced aggression. Sherlock wouldn’t excuse it just because John was too emotional to be rational at the time.

“Because you’re obviously very bored and can’t be bothered to sit through all this. We still have another hour or two left before I’m done. Go for a walk. Go get lunch. Go solve a murder. Just _go_.” It was bad enough, all the shit Sherlock has to do for him. He wasn’t a caregiver yet he struggled to squeeze himself into the role for John.

John lost Sherlock when he lost his sight. He can deal with being visually impaired. It’s hard, but he’s a soldier. He’s dealt with worse.

“It’s not –“

“Please.”

The pleading tone deflates Sherlock and he knows it’s the John’s nervousness turning him so irritable. It takes the fight right out of him. A Sherlock Holmes that doesn’t fight is a strange thing. With a quick order to find him as soon as John’s finished, he leaves the room with an uncharacteristic amount of cooperation.

“I’m sorry about that, Doctor, he’s acts like a bloody child. Most of my physicians end up kicking him out themselves. Please continue.” John’s used to apologizing for Sherlock’s behavior, although Hart seems to have dealt with it far longer than most.

“Of course, Doctor Watson.” The greying man focuses on the task at hand, deft fingers twisting at the dials and lights as though the interruption never happened. “But you know, from where I was sitting it appeared your friend wasn’t bored. He looked nervous.” He’s muttering to John as he pulls out some more equipment. John can hear the clinking as he gets it in place. “During examinations, we keep the room mostly dark so I can use the tools in here more effectively. It lets me see more than most doctors because when the lights dim people seem to have an immediate reaction. They drop their faces, completely unaware of it, usually.” John is silent, listening. He was a surgeon, then a GP. He’s unfamiliar with the environment this ophthalmologist works in.

John’s instructed to lean his head back as the doctor drops a cold aching liquid onto both eyes. Hart continues, “I’ve seen people sit their bored out of their minds and I’ve seen people sit there chewing at their fingers and nearly in tears. Your friend there was certainly nervous.”

John feels the cold metal of the contraption leave his face and flinches slightly as bright spots break through his hazy world. Doctor Hart must be fiddling with the slit lamp.

John can’t help but feel bad at how he snapped at Sherlock. How could he confuse nervous fidgeting with the detectives bored sulking? He can read Sherlock better than anyone, yet he made such a glaring error. An almost complete stranger was able to point out the differences.

For a moment a terrifying thought enters John’s mind: if he could have seen he would have been able to differentiate. He can’t even understand the man he loves anymore. Something else he lost because of these fucking eyes. For a moment he’s mad at his own incompetence, his inability to still be Sherlock’s assistant, partner, or friend. He’s dragging the whirlwind detective down.  Then the anger clears. He’s not mad at himself. It’s Sherlock, treating him like a wounded pet. It’s Sherlock handling him like he’s made of spun sugar.

He can’t take it anymore. The two of them won’t survive acting so out of character: John like a delicate piece and Sherlock like a doting caregiver.

“Sorry. That was a little unprofessional of me.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” John breaks out of his thoughts, mumbling, “It’s all fine.”

He’s lost his sight, and he can handle that, but he can’t lose Sherlock too.

\-----

“So it’ll be two different procedures meaning separate surgeries for each eye because each will require a different level of anesthesia.” John wasn’t going to get his hopes too high.

“They have to work around the scarring in your right eye from a previous injury obtained in Afghanistan. That’s what caused the first surgery to be so ineffective. It also explains why you started experiencing symptoms of re-detachment in that eye two hours before the other eye. Silicone will be used instead of gas to repair the left eye which initially failed due to the incompetence of the first medical professional we sought.” John tries to give Sherlock a reproaching look. The poor ophthalmologist on call at the A&E had no idea what he was getting into; he did the best he could. And part of it was John’s fault too, he was on so many painkillers he was hardly aware, barely able to tell anyone what he was seeing, or not seeing.

Retinal tears are basic and easy to fix, even if they result in a retinal detachment but John was mostly out of it for four days and it was a while longer until he was coherent enough to comment on his decreasing vision.

They can’t diagnose without a proper list of signs and symptoms. “That means twice as much recovery time, more pills, more nausea, and more pain.” John’s hung his head. Although he couldn’t see the man, it was a habit to look away when he didn’t want to hear anymore. Sherlock caught onto the act immediately. Like a shark smelling blood in the water, “But that’s not it. You’re not worried about recovery or side effects.”

This whole bloody mess could have been avoided. If he hadn’t of turned down the alleyway, or if they’d called for backup, or, or, _something._ So many what-ifs. It’s not his fault, Sherlock and he have flogged that dead horse to no end, but it’s his body and he wants to take some form of control over it. The responsibility can’t completely sit with some punk-for-hire off the streets.

When there’s nothing but silence from the blond, he stalks forward and drops to a crouch in front of the man. He frames John’s face in his hands, tilting his head up, and he searches the doctor’s face. “No. You don’t want to get your hopes up. You don’t think it’s going to work. You’ve given up before they’ve even tried!”

Since when is this the situation? Since when does Sherlock preach to John about things like hope and strength and fighting? He has no right to accuse John of giving up. He wrenches his face from the man’s hand and turns his head toward the window and away from the sound of his voice. The silence aches.

Sherlock recognizes the body language that means its back: that distant look that means John’s giving up, receding back into himself. But Sherlock can’t let him slip away, “Don't do that.” _Not now when we have a real chance._

John’s head snaps up. “Do what?”

Sherlock’s desperate because John’s eyes will drift to the floor and he’ll frown slightly and sit in utter silence for an irritating span of time. He won’t let him run away so easily, not this time, not now when it’s so imperative that John fights.  Sherlock’s frustrated growl doesn’t so much as make John flinch.

“The Look!” _The Look that means you’re leaving me. The Look that means you’re not telling me something.  The Look that means you are sinking into some hidden part of your mind where I can’t reach you. I need to be able to reach you, damn it John, I need you by my side._

“The Look…?” John huffs to himself. He’s tired. He doesn’t want to do this.

“You're doing The Look again.” Sherlock needs John to stay right here with him. He needs to know John still wants to be with him, despite what he’s done to him. He’s taken away so much.

“Well, I can't see it, can I?!” John’s angry at his shortcomings, his inability to keep up with Sherlock.

\-----

“John this could fix you. This is a real chance to go back to normal.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why? Because you’re too busy wallowing in pity to see the high probability of success?”

“No not that! _Fix_. Don’t use that word. I’m not broken Sherlock.”

“John, really –“

“Tell me, if I was stuck like this, if this surgery fails, would it matter? Would it change how you feel about me?”

“No. No, of course not.”

\-----

Of course, _of course._ How absolutely stupid could he have been.

All he’s ever wanted was John to be okay. Whatever it takes because he needs to be alright. For both of them. When he sees the greying doctor hurting, staring off into space, blankly at the wall, eyes empty and face sullen it’s like freefalling. It’s pulling the air from his body and his heart is in his throat, choking him.

He’s a complete utter fool because this entire time he hasn’t been able to see past John’s condition. He’s missed the how he’s been hurting him by treating him this way. He saw but did not observe.

How could the smartest man of alive have been so _blind_?

\-----

One of Sherlock’s favorite things is helping John shave. John makes it known one every occasion that he can, in fact, do this himself, and the detective believes him. The ex-Army surgeon has steady, cautious hands.

They stand in front of the bathroom mirror because it’s habit for John. It’s preferable for Sherlock because he can see the weary face relax, there in the reflection, underneath his gentle touch.

There’s something satisfying about trailing his fingers on the soft skin.

\-----

“- I was able to rule out several suspects based on the stiffness of the ash alone. From the color and density of the ash it was obvious it came from a cigar, most likely between five and five an a half inches. Bit outdated, so the suspect was older and most likely male.”

“From the amount of debris the smoker had been there for between 30 and 40 minutes. The officer was too focused on the amount of the time the murderer had waited for his victim to show up and completely overlooked the truly important evidence right under his shoe. Higher quality tobacco keeps its form when it burns off and, coupled with the silky bit of wrapper on the ground implies the cigar was expensive and bought abroad.”

“The wrapper was Cuban, from its structure and texture. A small bit of analysis in the lab confirmed it. The murderer was clearly not an expert criminal if he’s going to make a mistake so glaring as leave the cap end of cigar at the scene after clipping it off. So who could not only buy a high priced cigar and has been abroad recently? The father of the victims girlfriend.”

“Sherlock, I appreciate what you’re trying to do here but going on about tobacco ash is not calming. This is the fifth ash-related tale you’ve told me and I’m far from relaxed.” John drummed his fingers impatiently on the arm of the uncomfortable chair. He’s starting to believe they make the seating this stiff and cramped on purpose. The staff wants maximum tension before they start jamming needles and sharp things into his eyes.

“I’m not trying to do anything other take advantage of an excellent opportunity to educate. “ With a petulant sniff, Sherlock hugs his knees, cramming himself into his seat.

“You just like talking about ash” John rolled his eyes but grinned anyway. Sherlock probably doesn’t even realize what he’s doing: trying to comfort John before his procedure. “Show- off”.

“You haven’t changed your stance on the outcome of the operation” The tall git knows just how to ruin the easiness of their conversation.

“I don’t want to talk about it. You don’t want to talk about it either, not really.” It’s strange to see this man of science in this state. Quite possibly it’s the first time Sherlock Holmes can remember being willing to just believe in something, instead of analyzing every factor, variable, and possible outcome.

“John, even if this doesn’t work, it doesn’t change anything: not how we operate and not the work. Even without sight you still have four perfectly…” Sherlock stumbles for a word as John looks at him, a stormy pout on his face, “ _adequate_ senses. You’ll still be more observant than half of New Scotland yard.”

A compliment, a real one, from Sherlock Holmes.  It softens him.

“You’ll be solving cases, yet, my dear Watson.”

He’s trying not to show how much it affects him, but he’s never been very good at schooling his facial expressions, and it’s obvious the detective notices when he wraps one of his hands around John’s smaller ones. John doesn’t share the same faith in his abilities, but Sherlock’s tone makes him want to.

“What? No.” He’s shaking his head. “No. Nobody could be that clever.”

“You could.”

In all the time he has known the detective he’s never heard him praise someone else’s intelligence. Sure, that wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement for John’s deductive capabilities, but it was as close as anyone is going to get, he’s positive.

“Besides you can’t get too much worse at solving cases. Even with your vision at near perfection you still missed all the important observations.”

The moment was nice while it lasted.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life is hard.


End file.
